


Recovery's bitchier

by NyannyCat_13



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Braille, Hug reader plz, Make Up, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader is deaf, Reader is less suicidal, Reader loves Monsters, Recovery, Walking Canes, literally thats it - Freeform, reader is blind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11719353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyannyCat_13/pseuds/NyannyCat_13
Summary: The title says it all.Sequal to Karma Bitch





	Recovery's bitchier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JJ](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=JJ).



> I literally wrote this for an amazing person called JJ who commented in the last one and I'm not good with high praise. Hope its good. Also sorry for not existing I'm writing stuff I swear just ignore me for a few more months

Recovery was hard. Recovery is hard. You were blind forever. You were deaf forever. You were scared forever. You were scarred forever. You didn't want to live like this, where time lasted forever. Recovery was hard.

You forced yourself out of your corner sometimes. You moved a few inches sometimes. You moved onto your bed sometimes. You had forgotten how the sheets had felt. You held your cherished stuffed animal and cried and sat in your corner sometimes. Recovery was hard.

It was easier to not move. It was easier to not change your clothes. It was easier to not bother with hygiene. It was easier not to bother with food. It was easier not to drink. It was easier to waste away. Recovery was hard.

You tried to regain the control on time. You tried to regain the control on speaking. You listened to the child, you listened to Frisk. You learned that they were mute. It was hard, but you let them touch your hands. You let them twist your hands in weird ways. You listened to the child as they said letters and words with every twist. You twisted questions to them. They answered. They told you when it was dark. They told you you should sleep. You felt the walls gently and resisted the urge to break your knuckles against them. Recovery was hard.

They mattered to you these days. You tried to bother these days. You didn't hide the slashes across your eyes, blinding you. You didn't hide your lack of ears, or the disgusting mass that shown when someone looked. You didn't hide the words carved into your skin. You didn't hide how you were slowly regaining weight. You didn't hide because you tried to be proud. You cut your dirty hair until it barely made it past your scalp. Sometimes memories would flash through the darkness and then you would grab your stuffed animal and stumble out to find a furry or boney or scaley or gloved or human or metal hand who would distract or comfort you until the memories were gone. Recovery was hard.

Sometimes, often, you would leave your room. Sometimes, rarely, you would leave your stuffed animal. Sometimes, rarely, you would be found gripping hard on the stair railing or sitting in the bathroom, slightly fingering a hidden, rounded razor you kept before sighing and putting it away, skin left uncut. It was hard.

You knew they were around you a lot. You knew you ruined their days sometimes. You knew you saved their days sometimes. You knew that Frisk might abandon everything if you succeeded what you had been trying to do for months, maybe years. You knew that you were part of them. You knew they didn't care about your lack of ears or your slashed eyes. You knew they cared about you the day they found you. You felt them beam whenever you tried to smile at them. They refused to let you go. It's just so hard.

You listened to the eager skeletons, you listened to the eager Sans and Papyrus. They gave you a book. It was hard, but you let them touch your hands. You let them set your fingers on little bumps in the book. You listened as they said words and letters and jokes and screams of brotherly anger with every bump. You began to feel lots of books. You had forgotten books. You wished you could give up sometimes.

Some days you would actually try. Some days you would stumble into the shower and wash off the grease and sweat and tears. Some days you wouldn't wash off blood. Some days you would stumble slowly down the stairs. Some days, rarely, you would find yourself sitting on a couch, another thing you had forgotten, and feel a book while your friends were weird and social and everything you envyed. Sometimes, extremely rarely, you would find yourself twisting an answer or an opinion or a question. They would act like you were normal. They acted like you butting in was nothing to be proud of. You could feel their excitement and proudness from ten feet away. You wondered why you even tried sometimes.

Some days you would give up. Some days you would stumble into the bathroom and clumsily search for your rounded razor. Some days someone else would have to wash off the blood for you. Some days you would sit in your corner. Some days, rarely, you would be floating in nothing and you wouldn't respond to anything. Sometimes, extremely rarely, you would be fine one minute, and then the hands would be pulling you away from the open stove and trying to heal your rapidly growing burn wounds. They acted like you were normal. They acted like those times weren't anything to worry about. You could feel their worry, and their extreme hope while you sat in your corner. You wondered what your last words to them would be sometimes.

One day you listened to machine, one time you listened to Mettaton. You learned that he put on make up sometimes. You learned that it helped him be confident sometimes. It was very hard, but you let him touch your face. You let him swipe your face with little bristles. You listened as he gloated humbly about how well he could apply make up with every swipe. When he finished, he told you you were beautiful and showed you to the others. You felt their happiness soar. You felt your happiness soar. You saw a picture of yourself through the darkness and the next time someone saw you you were crying happily. You wish you could stop being happy most of the time.

The day you first smiled, they all hugged you. The day you first laughed, they all hugged you harder. With every achievement towards recovery, they would hug you. You liked their hugs. You could feel their hope. Sometimes you could feel your own hope. They didn't deserve to be called monsters. You sat near a window and looked out of it with slashed eyes, thinking or feeling a book. You really liked your books. You began to forget about your stuffed animal. Sometimes you still tried to die.

You loved them. You loved them all so much. You know their lives would be so much better without you. You know everyone's lives would be so much better without you. You were nothing but a burden. You did nothing but whine and cry and cut like an emo freak. Yeah, you were nothing but a disgusting freak living with a bunch of monsters that clearly didn't deserve the name. You deserved it. You wondered if you would even have the chance to go to heaven as you sat in your corner.

One day you listened to the scaley couple, one day you listened to Undyne and Alphys. They gave you a long object. It was extremely hard, but you let them touch you. You let them guide you down hallways. You listened as they explained how to use a cane and told you how to hit it and how to not step on things with every step. You began to walk into different rooms. You had forgotten entire chunks of this house. You wished you were dead sometimes. Recovery was unbearably hard sometimes.

One time you had begun to tread the shaky walk downstairs when you overheard the voices you knew so well. You sat down on a step and listened. Apparently a human had spotted you by the window. They described your horrific appearance and claimed the "monsters" were holding you captive. After they stated that accusation, many other humans recalled times when they saw you jumping out of windows. They wanted to see you. You were all over the news. You were all over social media. Monster haters were all over you. You didn't go downstairs. But you knew they would understand.

You were scared. You were scared for the first time in a long time. You were scared for the first time since that first suicide attempt. You didn't want people to see you. You didn't want people to take pictures of you. You didn't want people to hurt you, to laugh at you. You didn't want people. You'd much rather have "monsters." But you knew they wouldn't care. That was a lie.

One day you listened to the furry royalty, one day you listened to Asgore and Toriel. They trusted you, and they were finally beginning to trust and forgive each other to do this. Frisk was there to help, too. It was hard to do, and it was messy, but you found yourself giggling at every mess. You and Frisk kept on stealing bits and pieces of the substance, but Toriel simply gave small protests and, from what Frisk was telling you, smiles. After a while of waiting patiently, you had found out that the substance was butterscotch cinnamon cookies. They tasted wonderful. You were proud of them. You were proud of you. Never once did you lunge for anything hot. Afterwards, you twisted that you would talk to the hateful humans. But you knew they would be happy for you if you suceeded in what you had been trying to do for years. That was a lie.

One day you stood in silence, holding your stuffed animal under your arm and a big book in your hand. You didn't want shoes. You didn't want fancy outfits. You let Mettaton put make up on you to give you confidence. You wiggled your free fingers a tiny bit, preparing for the twisting Frisk taught you to give you speech. You gripped your favorite book, filled with the bumps the skelebros used to give you a hobby. You gripped your cane, feeling its texture with your thumb as you remembered the rooms you remembered thanks to Undyne and Alphys.

You didn't hide the slashes across your eyes, blinding you. 

You didn't hide your lack of ears, or the disgusting mass that shown when someone looked.

You stepped outside, feeling concrete and sticks and pebbles and grass for the first time in so, so long.

You smiled to the invisible crowds of people silently demanding for answers, ready to answer them.

You were deaf forever. But you could hear your friends.

You were blind forever. But sometimes you could see pictures of what was going on.

Recovery was hard.

But getting better was worth it.


End file.
